Confined
by TapesAndRecords
Summary: "You're not okay." He doesn't know quite where the line is, but he's willing to bet he's just crossed it.
1. Chapter 1

**note: **This is... well, angst. I'm not sure where it came from, I just woke up with a few lines from a completely random song on repeat in my head (see below), and I wrote down whatever came to mind. This is it. I don't love it, but hey. This isn't a tag, exactly, but as a note it does take place sometime after the whole season-opener explosion thing, purely for plot.

**disclaimer: **You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you're up late and you think "Ziva'd be up and running by now, and I'm not even asleep."

**listening to: **Come away with me, by Norah Jones

* * *

_was I invading in on your secrets?  
__was I too close for comfort, you're pushing you out when I wanted in?  
__what was I just about to discover?  
__when I got too close for comfort, driving you home,  
__I guess I'll never know._

_-McFly, Too Close for Comfort._

* * *

"You sure you're okay?"  
His voice is quieter and far more rough than he'd intended, but it does not distract his partner, nor drag her out of the reverie she's been in for most of the day.

"I am fine." she says sharply; her token response when anyone enquires as to how she is. Suddenly she heaves a deep sigh, and in his peripheral vision he sees her raise a hand and press her fingers into her forehead, seemingly wishing to drown out whatever is bothering her. "Sorry. I, um... I have been feeling off all day, I do not mean to shout at you."

His eyebrows raise at the fact that she actually apologizes, but he says nothing about it. Typically, he would come out with some kind of sarcastic remark in an attempt to ease the tension, and they'd be back at square one. Or wherever this whole thing started. But he doesn't, because square one just isn't good enough anymore.  
"All of today... you've been worrying me, Ziva. And I know it's not my place, and sure you don't have to tell me, but... God, I don't know."

Her head has shot up, probably at his usage of _me_ and _I_, rather than their typical _we_. The latter means you can disguise your feelings by pretending everyone is having them. The former, makes it so much more personal.

"I didn't mean to... worry you, Tony, that was never my intention. I'm sorry."

He brakes slightly too abruptly at the red light; her second apology in half a minute has startled him somewhat. She's definitely not okay.  
Knowing that they are mere minutes from her apartment, he leans over and grabs her hand in his, interlinking their fingers as he moves to rest it on the gear stick. He can't quite bring himself to meet her eyes but he expects she'll be looking at him rather in shock.

"You're not okay." he states, his voice implying that he knows he is right. A smug smile on his face, in fact, would just complete the look, but he knows now really isn't the time.

Her hand tenses beneath his but he does not release his tight grasp. If he does, she'll shut down completely. Here, he may be forcing her somewhat to open up, but it's all he can think of right now.

"I am perfect. Just... peachy."  
The words sound weird coming from her mouth, but he opts to swallow the remark that dances on his tongue and instead shoot her a look that suggests he thinks differently to her.

Pulling up outside her apartment complex, he's about to ask when he should pick her up in the morning when she announces that her car will be returned to her the next day.  
"Oh. You no longer require my services, I see how it is." He fakes a shunned sniff and angles his head to the window defiantly, and she chuckles in her seat. Her hand turns over from its still-existing prison, and he turns to see her looking at him, eyes wide and filled with some thus far unknown emotion- when aimed in his direction, anyway-, and something stirs deep within him as she laces her fingers with his once more.

"I got a phone call this morning, from Tel Aviv," she begins, and he instantly blurts out a hasty theory that Eli David is dead. She laughs genuinely at his tone and tells him of course not. "No, my father has not been killed; it's nothing like that. He just wanted to speak with me. _To _me, I should say. He called, to... check up on me. And..." she trails off.

"And you don't know how to feel about that?"

"Frequently in my past, I have questioned my father's motives for such actions as this. I used to fear that he would recall me back to Mossad and I would have to leave you."  
He briefly wonders whether they're being honest tonight, and you implies him rather than the whole team, but he does not ponder on it.  
"I've spent all day wondering why he called."

"To say hello? He checked up on us in the elevator." He somehow feels the need to remind her of this fact, though he suspects she has been remembering that all day, too.

"I do not know. Either way, that is why I have been so... distant, all day. And I apologize for that."

"Why?" the word comes out before he can stop it and god, he really wishes he could sensor everything he says.

"...why what, exactly?"

"Why are you apologizing? You've been saying sorry ever since we got in this car."

"S- oh, perhaps you are right." she says, laughing loudly, and he grins suddenly because yeah, maybe it feels good that she's told him what was bugging her.

Without really thinking, he releases his hand from hers and raises it to her face, brushing away some of her hair before ruffling it affectionately. He does not intend to make her smile, exactly, even if that is what used to happen. Instead, her smile falls and her eyes widen, darting from his hand to his face and to his lips and back again.  
"Tony, I..."  
He barely says her name in an attempt to stop her speaking, before his hand cups her cheek and he leans over, sliding his hand into her hair as he kisses her over the seat.

She certainly does not seem opposed to the action- quite the opposite, in fact. She shifts closer on her seat and reaches over to touch his face, fingers flitting over his skin and his hair as if she doesn't quite know what to do. Her lips move against his and his heartbeat spikes along with a burning desire that rises through him until suddenly it explodes.  
It's as his hand grasps at her waist and glides under her shirt that she pulls back suddenly.

His eyes are delayed from the rest of him and they peel open only to see her pick up her bag and exit the car hurriedly, running to her apartment complex door without looking back.  
He knows what floor she's on and what number it is- he's got a key, in fact-, but he does not chase after her. She wouldn't have run if she had wanted him to. Instead, he turns the key in the ignition, sighs, and drives back to his apartment, his brain running a mile a minute with thoughts.

* * *

Reviews are nice.


	2. Chapter 2

**note: **I didn't forget this, I promise. Yes, it was many moons ago that I replied to people's reviews, promising an update, but this one's just been giving me hell. I won't bore everyone with the details, but really it's been a toughie.  
This isn't actually the road I wanted to go down with this fic, nor the stall, but it is vaguely what my brain splurged out last night after I watched SWAK and figured I could write something or other. I really hope it's not too open-ended, either, as I honestly have no intention of carrying this on. If you want more, I apologize, but this one's been hard enough as it is.

**disclaimer: **You know you're obsessed with NCIS when you still manage to watch three episodes even though you've got exams by the dozen for two weeks. (Oops.)

**listening to: **Winter Song, by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson

* * *

An eerie glow is cast over the bullpen, and he saunters from the elevator with a false smile meant for no one. The city outside those big, wide windows shimmers and glints with life, and he half-wonders what on earth he's doing here. But, he thinks as he shrugs his bag from his shoulder, he knows the answer anyway.

His computer whirrs to sleepy life as he takes a seat, pulling his gun from its holster and resting it haphazardly on his desk. The safety's off but he's not quite sure why.  
The metal glints as it sits under artificial glow, the skylight dimmed but not gone entirely, and for that he's vaguely thankful.

Clearing his throat, he brings up his report on the screen and types lazily with two fingers, mind somewhere else entirely. Mind focused on the empty desk in front of him.

He stops halfway through a word and stands, waltzing over to his partner's little corner and flicking on the lamp with a quiet noise. The beam judders momentarily but flashes to life, and he seats himself down in Ziva's chair, hand blindly typing out a few nonsense words on her keyboard even though it's not switched on. Perhaps _because _it's not switched on.  
Whistling, he pushes the seat back before looking around.

The desk seems to emanate her, as odd as that sounds even in his mind. Just the arrangement of everything, the flag, the order of her things, the fact that a constant pad of sticky notes resides in her top-left drawer; a fact he knows but shall never admit so long as she's anywhere near him.  
It reminds him of her, just like it did all through that unforgettable summer, just like it does every hour of every day. Reminds him of the way she laughed at a blurted-out theory; the way she looked at him as he tucked a hair behind her ear. The way she moved closer as he kissed her and nothing had ever felt more intoxicating. Intoxicating might just be the word since he's definitely hooked.

Something clicks behind him all of a sudden, and his thoughts scatter hurriedly, his breathing echoing in his head. And somewhere- somewhere muffled yet rather close, someone else is breathing, too.

His ears prick up and he stands, stepping back to his own desk in a clumsy movement. He's barely thinking as he reaches for his weapon, raising it to the pale illumination of the stairwell. Part of him remembers that it's the stairwell they should've walked down rather than take the elevator, whilst the other part mentally scolds him for not noticing the light coming on in the first place.  
He won't hesitate to fire, and he knows this; his mind's too messed up tonight as it is, to cope with whatever _this_is, as well. He feels half-drunk as it is, with the adrenaline rushing through him, and yeah, no matter who the person is, creeping slowly up the stairs, he'll shoot them if they pose a threat.

But then, a figure emerges in the din, all curly hair and tentative steps, and his weapon falls to the floor as his body feels numb.

"I thought I would find you here." she says quietly, eyes trained somewhere on his shoulder as she walks toward him, apparently not paying any attention to the gun lying by a trash can.

"I almost shot you." he replies, equally softly but with slight indignation.

"I know."

He's about to raise his voice and ask her what the _hell_she means by that, when she steps suddenly into his field of vision and his mouth dries up, despite her distance from him.

"I... wanted to apologize. I have been looking for you everywhere."  
She says the second part so casually, and even though he knows everywhere only means his place, the bar, and here, his eyebrows raise in surprise regardless.

"Apologize for what?"  
The words are out before he can stop them, and he can't blame the rising fire in her eyes as she looks up at him, confusion and fury etched into her expression.

"For running away."

He swallows down the lump in his throat but allows her to continue.

"You... you took me by surprise. And w-when you moved closer, I did not know what to do." she tells him, wincing as if aware of how awkward everything seems all of a sudden, and he slowly wets his lips before stepping forward.

"Sorry."

She frowns at him and shakes her head, and not for the first time in the night he has no idea what on earth is happening.

"Tony, I... I did not mind it- I _do _not mind it, in fact. I told you, I was surprised, that's all."

"Oh." he says, although that really doesn't seem to cover it.

He looks at her then, really looks at her, not just a glance. He looks into her eyes and smiles a little, and somewhere deep within her, he hopes he sees some kind of acceptance.

"Would you mind if I did it again?"

She chews her lip and grins, as if stifling a laugh, and drops her gaze before returning it, shaking her head.  
With that, he slides his arm round her waist and kisses her again, gentle and soft and not at all like their embrace in his car. It tastes of promise as opposed to lust, and in his opinion, for now, that's far sweeter.

Even though she deepens the action he still pulls back, sending her a lopsided grin as she opens her eyes.  
"Hey, I've got a bottle of wine that could really do with being opened."

She laughs then, throwing her head back with amusement, and that artificial light angles itself over her face, taking his breath away in one swift movement.

"Would a movie come with that wine, perhaps?"

"Not if you don't want a movie, no."

Her smile falls and he wonders what he's said wrong, but the serious look in her eyes seems more significant than annoyed.  
"You're telling me, that you'd rather spend the remainder of this night, with me, and a bottle of wine? No DVD, no Pizza?"

He drinks in her wide eyes that suggest he should carry on the list, but he just raises a hand to her shoulder and squeezes it lightly.

"Yes. I am."  
His voice is sincere and without sarcasm, and she blinks twice before looking straight at him.

"Okay."

He switches off his computer, not slowly but not in any real hurry, then scoops up his gun before picking up his backpack.

"Tony...?"

Looking up, he finds her standing at her desk, brow furrowed in confusion at something or other.  
"Why is my light on?"

He chuckles awkwardly before swallowing the excuse on the tip of his tongue.  
"That might have been me. C'mon."

She utters a quiet _oh _before taking his outstretched hand in hers and walking with him to the elevator.


End file.
